


Windows

by GloriaVictoria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Extended Metaphors, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaVictoria/pseuds/GloriaVictoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius looks out his window in Azkaban and sees too much, and not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windows

When Sirius arrived at Azkaban Prison, he knew its reputation well: every wizarding child grew up hearing horrific tales of the endless tortures they would face, should they ever warrant incarceration within its hollow walls. For pureblood children, it was worse, for to merit such a punishment represented one of the greatest sacrifices one could make for the Dark Lord, barring death. He knew that it stood on a solitary rock of an island, that it towered over the frigid North Sea, an abandoned lighthouse guiding souls to their doom. Most importantly, he knew that there was no chance of escaping Azkaban; it simply was not done. 

What he had not expected was the windows. He remembered the surprise he had felt as the dementors led him to his final resting place, only to find that each of the identical cramped cells had been furnished with a round window, no more than a foot in diameter and barred with steel. They opened up to the only view there was--the endless sea--but at times, they allowed a faint glimpse of sunlight, the wisps of a sea breeze, a false and fleeting sense of normalcy. It was possible that the architects of this hell did, after all, have some mercy in their hearts. More likely, it was a cruel and elaborate torture to further the inmates' misery, one more tantalizing than anything the endless cold and dark could provide. 

Sirius found, after a time, that if he pressed his face hard enough against the bars of his window, he could just see the great black gate, guarded by pairs of the dementors, their bodies hovering and billowing like standards of despair. Sometimes, he'd spot a new inmate being led from the dock, along the craggy shore, and up the narrow, broken stairs to their fate. More often than not they would faint and have to be carried over the threshold. Sirius could at least take pride in that he'd walked into Azkaban on his own two feet, even if he'd been too terrified to speak.

After a while, he got used to the view; in fact, sometimes it was even comforting to watch the water lap back and forth, a rhythmic rocking that never failed, never faltered. Storms rarely struck, but the sky never allowed more than a peek of blue through the everlasting shadow of the heavy grey clouds that hung over the prison. Constancy was the gospel of Azkaban, and Sirius felt oddly ashamed when he realized that he had grown accustomed to it. He found patterns in the movement of the dementors’ robes, in the whisper of the ocean, in the scraping of his plate on the stone floor at meal times. The more he gazed out the window, the more surreal his situation became: his life was a series, a cycle, a never-ending circle of loneliness and damp. Eventually, Sirius forced himself to rip off his numbered shirt and stuff it in the hole, blocking the outside world for just long enough for him to remember that he owned himself.

When Sirius could finally bring himself to remove it and look back out, he pretended that he could see past the miles of desolate water and peer into the lives of those he had left behind. Inevitably, it opened up to Godric’s Hollow first, where James and Lily had once lived, but he could never bring himself to stay there for long—a ruined, barren shell smouldering green and red in the night. He forced himself to forget James’ laugh, the rip in his leather jacket, the awkward jut of his elbows. Lily went soon after; their faces became smears on the glass of his memory. But Harry he clung to: the eyes, the tightness of his fat fist around his finger. The boy deserved his thoughts, and perhaps if he focused on him hard enough, he'd feel it.

Sometimes he would force his eyes toward his family home, no doubt creaking and cracking under the weight of the war. His parents, his brother, his cousins…perhaps they were all locked away here with him, captured by the Ministry of Magic for their crimes. What a cruel twist of irony that would be, he thought to himself and nearly laughed. Did they know he was locked up in here? Were they proud of his great betrayal? Probably not, and even if they were, the thought put a noxious taste in his mouth. Years of bile and resentment bubbled beneath his skin and he hoped that they choked on their stale bread, died of mold poisoning, drove themselves mad with their own malice. His parents fell through the cracks of his mind like water through the cracks in the brick walls of his cell, evaporated, vanished. 

Of course he turned his gaze to Hogwarts, the only home he’d really known. He wondered if it was September yet—seasons didn’t really exist in the middle of the ocean—and the new crop of students were boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time. He imagined the excitement he had felt as he set foot on that platform, looked back at his parents and stuck out his tongue at them behind their back. He remembered the feeling of the upholstered compartment around him, the taste of pumpkin pasties bought with his own money because he could, sticking his head out the window and smelling the mountain air around him. James and Lily’s blurred faces returned, joined by Snape’s sallow sneer, Andromeda and Narcissa’s delicate cheeks and wrists, Peter’s waddling gait behind them, Remus…

Remus.

It was weeks, months, (years?) until he could finally bring himself look Remus’ way. He imagined that Remus had found himself a comfortable cottage somewhere hidden, somewhere safe—knowing him, he’d charmed the whole place invisible. Sirius would close his eyes and watch Remus’ slender palms wrap around a mug of cocoa, his hair falling into his tawny eyes, a choppy golden mess, one of his hideous old books open between his folded legs. He tried not to remember the times he’d thrown those books aside and replaced them with his head, relishing the warmth of Remus’ lap, the gentleness of his fingers through his hair. 

Sirius inevitably began losing pieces of Remus, too—the number of scars on his face, the honeyed sound of his voice, how he took his tea. The darkness swallowed them up; his vicious keepers plucked all the beauty away from him until he could no longer close his eyes and envision the curl of Remus’ lips when he smiled. Sirius wondered whether Remus struggled as hard as he did to recall the pieces of him, or if he had pushed him out of his mind, resigned him to the place where dead friendships dwell. He hoped that Remus hadn’t filled his perfect heart with hate for him; he hoped that he wasn’t capable of such a thing. 

Sometimes, when he was gazing out at his memory of Remus, the moon would peep out from behind the seamless veil of clouds and he would choke on his own breath, knowing that somewhere over that grimy sea, Remus was changing alone, howling into that void between them, tearing away at himself inside and out. Sirius would cling to the bars, pressing his forehead to them and crying out for him, knowing that his voice couldn’t reach. 

On one of those nights, he pushed his fingers through the metal, and found that his hand slipped through just as easily. A few sharp jerks, a few twists, and his forearm was fully exposed to the moonlight. He had not looked at himself in what seemed like a millennia. The moonlight cast deep shadows in the space where his bones jutted from his flesh; his veins shone black beneath it, and he thought the he could almost see the blood pumping through them. He recoiled quickly, for if the dementors had seen, they would have no doubt kissed him then and there. The metal had bitten into his skin, and he rubbed it to rid himself of the pain. It was still a tight fit, and yet…

Behind him, the guard shoved his dinner under the door. Sirius pushed it back.

It was high time he started making his own windows.


End file.
